


Home

by Fostofina



Series: Home, Heart and Needle [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A mix of book and show canon but books take precedence, A small scene that turned into this long-ass one shot, Ebon is still an awesome word, F/M, Gen, Ghost is a character because I have the budget, Not Shippy, Other, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters, Takes place after season 7, assumes 5 year gap happened, don't let the ship tags control you man!, it is known, more about the stark sisters, or nonbinary person!, or woman!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 08:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12837606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fostofina/pseuds/Fostofina
Summary: "Her treacherous voice starts breaking again and Arya hates the fragile mess she’s become today. But it makes a bit of sense in this bizarre, upside down world where Jon avoids her like the plague and Sansa handles her with so much care."Jon returns to Winterfell, and nothing goes as expected at all.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> The story assumes the 5 year gap happened, there are also some elements of Jonrya in this (which I felt needed to exist to set up the main focus of the story) and some very few and subtle hints to Jonerys (just to stick a bit to the most recent semi-canon sources). However the story isn't really about the ships so you should be fine if you're not into them. 
> 
> Happy reading!

_Jon will want me even if no one else does?_

_What a load of crap…_

Arya shoves down the lump in her throat and sips on her wine, she tries to be as invisible as a person can be while sitting on the thrice-damned high table. She wills her muscles to relax and angles her body _just so_ to seem all the more natural. It seems to work, it really _really_ does.

It doesn’t work at all, Arya can still sense other people’s eyes on her, she _feels_ their pointed looks drilling holes at the back of her head. It makes shame and confusion dance in tandem beneath her skin, and she can’t for the life of her fathom the reason _why_. She hadn’t done anything wrong, well that’s not true at all. But she hadn’t told anyone what she’s done yet, and if this is how it is now…

The lump comes back to Arya’s throat in full force, bringing bile and fear with it. She shoves herself off the chair and excuses herself with a quick ‘your grace’ . Arya tries to ignore the stab of pain when all she gets from Jon is a disconcerted grunt thrown her way while he avoids looking at her, the only thing truly holding his attention is the dragon queen. The subtle displeasure in the lines of Daenerys Targaryen's comely face, so at odds with her gracious smile, almost makes Arya wish that she hadn’t learned to use her eyes.

 _Calm as still water._ She never thought that she would still have to use these lessons when she got back home.

 _Rule your face_ , she tells herself, _you can lie better than she can._

Arya blinks away the sting in her eyes and smiles as she gives a quick bow (no not a proper courtesy because apparently Arya’s reflexes do not think that she’s been humiliated enough for the night), she turns around and practically flees out the door.

* * *

 

Sansa is having a long day.

She fills her lungs with the warm air of the castle’s corridors and tries to dispel her darker thoughts. _This is madness and treason!_ Is she truly considering overthrowing the king in the North?  
  
Well, it wouldn’t be _her_ of course. Sansa would never be so disloyal to her own kin, but maybe some of the northern lords who are displeased with the knowledge that the king in the North is a Targaryen afterall, or some of the lords of the Vale who would sooner see Robert Arryn’s cousin in power than Ned Stark’s bastard.

 _His trueborn nephew._ she reminds herself. _His trueborn Targaryen nephew, the man with a king’s power and the legacy of madmen_.

Sansa had _seen_ how cruel the world can be to women. She _knows_ that a woman can be smart, lovely and highborn and life will still crush her between its jaws and shred her to pieces all the same. She has no illusions about how a person’s worth is measured when compared to the whims and caprices of a king. Joffrey and Cersei and every other noble in the Red Keep had taught her that bitter lesson well, they had tore into every dream she ever and killed any scrap of hope left in her.

She would be damned if she let Jon Snow do the same to her sister.

Sansa still remembers the king’s return to Winterfell as if it had just happened today. She remembers how her sister acted that morning, like winter was over and it was the first day of spring, Arya had not even objected when the maid tried to braid her hair. Sansa _of course_ had taken full advantage of her sister’s newfound leniency, she put her in one of her mother’s old blue gowns that she had refitted for Arya in hopes that she would one day consent to wearing it, and she added winter roses to her hair and kept telling her how lovely she looked so Arya would like it.

For the first time since they’ve found each other, her sister had looked so innocent and hopeful when she saw the royal party approaching, it was a look that Sansa knew _oh_ so well. She had seen it the first time she looked in the mirror after she was told that she would be queen, it was a look that belonged on a face that had not seen cruelty and suffering, a face that still believed in the goodness of people.

Sansa Stark had started out her journey with so many aspirations and dreams, she had believed in so many things and was sure of their truthfulness as she was sure that the sun would rise every day. Sansa Stark watched in horror as all her truths were dismantled brick by brick and thrown back at her face. And in her own way, Arya Stark was no different.

 _Except for one thing_. the look on Arya’s face had told her as much.

And now Jon Snow has the nerve to kill her sister’s last hero.

She remembers how they all lined up to receive him and the dragon queen, how Arya had shifted in her spot restlessly beside the lady of Winterfell, her hand clutching Needle’s pommel in a ferocious grip. Sansa stifles her rage when she remembers how _his grace_ had taken one look at her sister and smiled with the passion and reverence of a man who was seeing the sun rise for the first time, only for his expression to suddenly shift to that of a hungry lion looking at a particularly savory game. The way his eyes roamed over Arya and undressed every inch of her had made cold white terror claw up Sansa’s spine. _The king can do as he likes!_ She remembers how Joffrey’s voice had rang in her head like a war horn and how she immediately stirred, almost moving in front of her sister to shield her before she caught herself. The guilt and shame that sprung on the king’s face when he realized what he’s done, and the crisp indignation on the silver queen’s soft features have only confirmed her doubts.

The miracle was that _Arya_ , the same Arya who read her like an open book, had stayed blissfully unaware that her kingly cousin has had his eyes on her before he even knew that he wasn’t her brother.

Her thoughts are interrupted when a small figure walks by her at full speed, and Sansa only has time to glance her sister’s ruddy face and hear a _sniffle_ before Arya is already at the end of the hallway, Ghost hot on her heels.

She sighs, and goes to follow her.

Sansa is having a long day.

* * *

 

Arya hears footsteps behind her, and she shifts her destination to Sansa’s room.

No one would dare go into the Lady of Winterfell’s chambers uninvited, not even the King in the North.

Not that there’s much chance that he’s the one following her anyway.

Arya steps into the room and sits on the rugs in front of the fireplace, her back against her father’s old bed, she burrows her head into Ghost’s snowy fur and hides her face as she lets the warm tears flow.

What was the point of coming back from Braavos? Winterfell was safe again and she had nothing to do with it. No one needed Arya at all. No one wanted her either, they had only glimpsed part of what she’s become and kept their distance ever since, just as she knew they would. Bran did not care enough to want her. Sansa was too wary to want her. Jon...Jon had no reason yet, Jon _just_ did not want her.

Hell, her own direwolf did not want her.

Even lost in her despair, Arya can still hear Sansa’s soft footsteps behind her. She honestly half expected that her follower would be the only person who could enter the Lady’s room given her current streak of luck. What catches her off guard is the feeling of her older sister’s arm brushing against her own as Sansa sits next to her on the floor, her exquisite gown pooling around them.

‘Arya’ Sansa calls to her very softly ‘has something happened?’

Arya does not acknowledge her, she keeps her head buried in Ghost’s fur and doesn’t even look at her.

She feels stupid. She feels ugly. She feels vulnerable and lonely and homeless. She cannot, _will not_ let Sansa see her so weak.

They stay like that for a while, with Sansa patiently waiting and Arya burying her head in white fur, too craven to face her sister and too pitiful to stop her crying.

Suddenly, she feels a hand gently smoothing her hair, its touch warm and solid and so much like Catelyn Tully’s that Arya cannot help but feel the wave of comfort and serenity that had always flowed from her mother’s fingertips. When was the last time anyone had touched her so gently? Was it that time when Lady Smallwood had dressed her in the acorn dress or was there a time after it? Sansa’s hand suddenly feels dangerous, as if every press of her sister’s palm is driving a great tear into the veils she had sown so well around her heart.

But before Arya could shrink away, Sansa does the most brutal and vicious thing in the world. She calls to her again _so_ tenderly ‘Little sister?’

Arya’s head snaps up to Sansa’s face so fast that pain shoots right through her neck, but what she sees makes it all worth it.

It feels like she’s only seeing now just how much her sister looks like the rest of their family.

What startles her isn’t how much Sansa looks like her mother and brothers, even when she had always loved the way their hair glowed like thousands little rays of sunset and how their eyes looked like the clear blue sky. What catches her completely off guard is how much of everything else found its way to her sister’s face throughout the years: Robb’s protectiveness in her eyes, Bran’s sweetness in her smile, the warmth of Rickon’s cheeks, the softness of their mother’s hands.

Their father’s spirit in the lines of her face.

Except that part has always been like this. While Arya had always been more wild, her father had called it the wolf’s blood in her and she never doubted him, but deep down she knew that her passion and adaptability were things her mother had given her as well. Sansa on the other hand, had always been calm and quiet even at her most ruthless, and when it was still summer she had been quick to trust and to expect the best from others, the same way father had always been. Sansa and father had both always been as docile as they were unyielding .

Looking at Sansa suddenly feels like seeing all the Starks again, and her sister’s face looks like the kindest Arya had ever seen.

That's what does it.

That's what shatters the flood gates.

Everything that Arya had entombed deep inside her heart, everything that she had struggled to forget, the things she had done, the things that were done to her, to those around her. _Everything_ bubbles to the surface at once and spills out, her relentlessly crafted self control blown away like leaves in a hurricane.

It all comes back so vividly to her, Syrio who gave his life for a murdering wretch like her, the poor stable boy who couldn’t have known he would die this way, the crowd screaming for her father and the Gods turning their backs on her prayers, and Gendry who did not want her either in the end. She thinks of the way Yoren died when all he did was try to protect them, of Lommy who died just because he couldn’t walk. She remembers going to sleep hungry and eating insects and worms so she wouldn’t starve to death, she remembers being cold and hoping that no one would catch a fever and die, she remembers not knowing if tomorrow will be her last day or if she’ll have to watch someone else die instead.

And then Harrenhal comes back to her and oh, _oh_ it does. The suffering of every poor soul she’s seen trapped in that nightmare, the people falling dead from swords swipes and sheer exhaustion during the march, the bruising beatings, the scrutiny of the soldiers, the rats scurrying in the dark storehouse, the terrified silence after that boy’s face was smashed in with a mace because he dared to be scared out loud. She can hear the villagers’ dying screams from torture and she tastes their blood in her mouth, she smells their guts and shit spilling out of them, she can see the way each of their faces twisted and contorted in pain before they died like pigs, the way their features had queer expressions that she did not know a human face could make.

How was anyone supposed to wake up the next day? And the day after that? How were they supposed to force themself to keep breathing? To work until their legs would buckle from under them and to look others in the eye and not scream and cry until someone put an end to their misery right there and then? She didn’t want to die, so instead she made a promise to all the fallen, to Mycah and Syrio and father and Lommy and Yoren and all the villagers. A promise that somehow, some day she would give them justice.

Because what kind of world lets that happen to people without retribution? Why did these girls get raped and killed so senselessly? Why was their life worth so little? They were not playthings, each one of them was a person, they were only old people and women and children who just wanted to live in peace and tend to their farms and play with their friends and instead they...they _... they..._ oh Gods... _oh Gods why? Oh Gods...Ooooh Gods…oh, oh, oh, oh…_

* * *

 

_What am I hearing?_

Sansa listens to her sister’s sobs and shakes her head in bewilderment, for a moment she is lost for words as she tries to figure out how to calm Arya’s hysteria. Seeing _Arya_ of all people crying was jarring enough, but hearing her weep and whimper and struggle for breath as she tells Sansa one of the most horrifying things she ever heard, makes her own stomach twist in helplessness.

Sansa tries running her hands down Arya’s back, but it’s no good. Her sister is bent for forward, hands perched on her knees and face almost pressed to the floor. And Arya’s whole body is so tense that she doesn’t seem to register what Sansa is doing to her, or the fact that Ghost keeps trying to desperately rub against her and lick her face, soft whines coming from the usually quiet wolf.

 _What would father do?_ She asks herself because she knows that he was one of the few people who knew how to deal with Arya, but then again if Sansa was being completely honest, there was only ever one person in house Stark whom Arya have always fully trusted for comfort and confiding her secrets.

Sansa swallows her sigh and begrudgingly asks herself. _What would Jon do?_

Brood. He would probably brood a lot, and maybe try to give an uplifting speech. Except that this is Arya, and when it comes to her Jon would probably do anything in the world to make her smile, well the old Jon would. Sansa gives another glance to Ghost, who is currently trying to stuff his muzzle between Arya’s face and the floor.

She wraps her arms around Arya’s shoulders and drags the petite girl’s frame into a side hug. The sudden movement seems to jolt her sister out of whatever delirium that overtook her, because her head snaps up and her red rimmed eyes meet Sansa’s. Arya looks sick, her eyes look wild and panicked, but something else grips her when their eyes meet again and quiet resolve settles onto her sharp features.

Unease churns in the pit of Sansa’s stomach as Arya’s face suddenly drains of all emotion, so unnaturally quick that she almost wonders if her sister simply snapped. The younger girl runs her hands up and down Ghost’s thick mane, and the Sansa’s unease is chased away by a suspiciously warm feeling as Arya readily relaxes into her embrace. She then proceeds to tell Sansa _the rest_ of her tale because apparently it wasn’t already unnerving enough, she tells her about faceless assassins and fleeing Harrenhal. About being hunted by sellswords and captured by their father’s man, and about the red priest who brings others back from the dead. About rejections and other escapes.

Then her hands start shaking, so Sansa reaches out and holds on to one of them, it’s cold and clammy feel reminding her of how her own hands would shake a long time ago, and she’s at least glad that she could spare her sister from this particular loneliness.

Arya tells her about the hound, about the red wedding, about Robb’s body and Grey Wind’s head, about dragging their mother’s corpse from the river and tasting her rotting flesh in her mouth.

She tells her about Braavos, about _valar morghulis_. And Sansa can almost taste bile when she imagines her sister’s blood softening leathery masks and the nightmares that follow, the way Arya talks about other people’s memories as if they were her own makes a shiver run down her back, but Sansa ignores it and keeps on quietly listening, determined to see this through to the end. Finally, Arya tells her about being No One in the morning and a wolf among her pack in the evening.

After all is said and done, Arya breaks away from Sansa and silently scoots closer to the fireplace, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Sansa...doesn’t quite know what to do with this information. She never thought that her sister would share so much with anyone, let alone _her_ of all people. They weren’t the closest of sisters before the war, Sansa was never closest to anyone (even when she wanted to be). Not in Winterfell, not in King’s Landing and certainly not in the Vale. It feels strange to have someone confide in her, for someone to trust in her with something that makes them vulnerable.

It feels _wondrous_ , like Arya is giving her the most precious gift in the world.

* * *

 

 

Sansa is quiet.

Sansa does not answer her.

Not after a moment, not after a few either.

_Stupid! Stupid! I should have known._

Arya can’t seem to manage to blink away the fresh wave of warm tears, and she’s glad that her back is turned on Sansa and that her heartbreak and shame are hidden. What a fool she is.

She takes a great shuddering breath before her shoulders slump in defeat ‘When the...when the things I did came back to me… I mean...I’ve always...I’ve always known that there was a good chance that you wouldn’t… that you wouldn’t accept...everything.’ The words are quiet even when she can’t seem to force them out of her mouth ‘but I used to think that at least Jon wouldn’t care, that he would want me even...I see now that it was stupid of me to think that. I’ll be gone from Winterfell come mo…’

‘No!’

Dainty hands suddenly grab Arya and _whirl_ her around with an honestly astonishing amount of force. In a second she’s fully facing Sansa, their faces mere inches away from each other.

‘Don’t go!’ Sansa’s voice is beseeching and her eyes are stormy.

Up go Arya’s eyebrows!

She blurts out the only thing that her dumbfounded mind can come up with ‘ _Why?_ Aren’t you disgusted with me?’

‘ _Never!’_ Sansa’s quiet tone turns as hard as stone, like there isn’t any room for argument, it’s grounding and lovely and too good to be true.

‘But I’m a killer!’ Her treacherous voice starts breaking again and Arya hates the fragile mess she’s become today. But it makes a bit of sense in this bizarre, upside down world where Jon avoids her like the plague and Sansa handles her with so much care.

‘Everyone is a killer! Father was a killer, Robb was a killer and Jon is a killer. This world was built by killers Arya. I’m used to it.’ Sansa’s eyes bore unrelentingly into her own, there is so much sorrow in then even when they appear serene at first glance. But she is yet to see the judgement in them.

This is too much. She has already said too much, already dug too deep. And if she keeps going...it would be best to stop now. It would be best to get up and leave before Sansa fully realizes what she’s asking.

‘That’s not the same thing at all’ the final terrible truth dribbles out of her lips as she begins to rise, the tears flow and Arya lets them because it doesn’t matter anymore, not when she utters the one thing she tried to escape the most ‘I am a monster…’

Sansa roughly cups her face and rests her forehead against  Arya’s, and she is suddenly reminded her talk with father after Mycah. Her big sister’s eyes shine like blue lightning _‘you_ are _not a monster_ Arya Stark’

‘But I…’

‘Listen to me!’ The lady of Winterfell commands, her voice fierce and staunch ‘I walked with monsters , I’ve danced with monsters, I ate with monsters, I lived with monsters and I _know_ a monster when I see one. A monster wouldn’t be crying right now, a monster would be proud of every life they’ve wasted. Tell me that Joffrey would care if it was justice or mercy. Tell me that Cersei or Baelish would think twice about anyone else’s pain.’

‘A monster lies, a monster cheats, a monster manipulates and kills, it doesn’t matter what excuse they have or if they have one at all’ the sobs wrack her body like barbed wire ‘I killed the Freys and I was glad to do so! I drove a sword through my own mother’s heart...’

‘The Freys drove the blade through her, what you killed was not my mother, not anymore’ Sansa sighs as she releases her face, her hands smoothing Arya’s hair again ‘But I see now that words are not what will convince you…’

‘What do you want from me Sansa?’ Arya feels tired and drained.

‘Stay’ she simply asks.

‘Sansa you really don’t have to pretend, I won’t be cross with you or go against you’

‘I know’ Sansa looks at her intently ‘I want you to.’

‘You...want me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even after all that I just told you?’

‘Even then.’

‘But no one wants me anymore…’

‘I want you little sister, even if no one else does.’

A wolf howls in the distance, then many others follow, twenty or thirty or even more, and Ghost’s head perks up.

It seems Nymeria has come home.

* * *

 

At Sansa’s words, Arya’s tiny frame stills and her features soften into something grateful and incredibly _touched_.

Her sister then abruptly closes the distance between them and draws Sansa into a fierce hug, she plants two wet kisses on her cheeks, then three more on her forehead, and one on each of her eyelids and then Sansa loses count. Unable to focus on much beyond the sudden swelling of her heart, she feels loved and favored and _precious_.

Arya draws back and gives her the most dazzling smile that Sansa had ever seen, wide and heartfelt and _true_ . Nothing like the smiles that she had gotten so used to, so well practiced that their _wrongness_ was almost impossible to pinpoint. But that was the thing about Arya, she never cared much for the politeness especially when it meant dishonesty, and she never smiled at anyone unless she deemed them worthy.

The genuineness of Arya’s toothy smile is a sight to behold, the way happy lines crinkle her face and affection dances in her eyes makes her entire face come alive, and it’s all directed at Sansa.

 _You smile is radiant sister._ Sansa can’t help but smile back. _You are radiant._

She had noticed how pretty her sister has become in their time apart, the strange way the very features that had earned her the name ‘Arya Horseface’ are the now her most captivating assets, but Sansa is only realizing how arrestingly lovely she had always been. Arya’s smile is brightening, and her presence is formidable. And looking at the sincere love on her little sister’s face makes it seem like color is billowing into the world around them, Rushing out of Arya’s small figure like the gushing river. It is honest and wild and unrestrained and _gorgeous_.

No wonder she could always squirm her way into anyone’s heart with a smile like that, no wonder at all.

‘So...’ Arya’s voice is light in a way that Sansa hadn’t heard since they’ve left Winterfell ‘I can get some sandpaper and oil.’

‘Yes?’ Sansa raises an eyebrow.

‘Think I can make Jon’s shoes a bit more slippery’ her sister snorts like any dutiful bratty little sibling ‘it’ll serve him right to fall on his fat arse in front of the queen.’

The image instantly makes a huff of laughter escape Sansa before she can stop it ‘I don’t know if that would be for the best.’

‘Probably not, it could get him hurt’ Arya nods before she leans near Sansa conspiratorially ‘but I’d wager you have a much more interesting idea in mind.’

‘How about this?’ Sansa smiles at her charmingly annoying sister ‘we can both think of something that wouldn’t make the North look like an idiot rules it.’

‘An idiot _does_ rules it.’ Arya mutters and this time Sansa cannot help but laugh at her grumpiness.

‘Yes, but that’s supposed to be a secret’ she doesn’t bother hiding the amusement in her voice as she draws Arya into another pleasant hug.

‘I’m glad to be home’ Arya whispers into her ear.

‘So am I, little sister’ Sansa confides back ‘so am I.'

**_~End~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any mistakes, it's pretty late here and English isn't my first language. But please feel free to point them out!
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! It's been so long since I wrote in the asoiaf universe (glances nervously at 'Answers' and pretends like nothing happened). 
> 
> Have a good day!


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